Saiman scanned the article. “It’s incomplete and full of garbage as always. They classify the upir as a corpse-eating undead. Look, they correctly state the upir has an enormous sexual appetite, but are unaware of the contradiction: an undead has no urge to mate, therefore an upir cannot be undead. They also mention that it will try to mate with anything mammal it can secure long enough to achieve a climax but fail to note that the product of such union usually survives to serve the upir.” He dropped the article in disgust. “If you ever need to know more about this creature, let me know.”

“I will.”

“So what brings you to my humble abode?”

“I need an m-scan evaluated.”

He arched his eyebrow again. I could learn to hate him. “Very well. I’ll charge you by the hour. Our usual discount starting . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Now. Do you want a complete workup?” he asked.

“No, just the basics. I can’t afford the fancy stuff.”

“Cheap client?”

“I’m working pro-bono.”

He grimaced. “Kate, that’s a horrible habit.”

“I know.”

He took the chart, holding it gently with his long fingers. “What interests you?”

“A series of small yellow lines toward the bottom.”

“Ah.”

“What would register yellow? And how much is the answer going to cost me?”

“A great question. Let me run a test to make sure this isn’t a mechanical failure.”

I followed him to the lab. A forest of equipment that would make the personnel of an average college lab giddy with joy rested on black surfaces of flame-resistant tables and counters. Saiman donned a green waterproof apron and a pair of slick opaque gloves, reached under the table and produced a ceramic tray. With a practiced, economic movement, he took the tray to a glass cube in the corner.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m going to scan the m-scan to pick up any residual traces of magic. Full enclosure. I don’t want any contamination.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“It’s free. Your altruism infected me. You still have to pay for my time, of course.”

He touched a lever and the cube rose upward on a metal chain. Saiman slid the tray onto the ceramic platform and lowered the cube, so the glass enclosed the tray. His fingers danced across the keyboard and an explosion of green color flooded the cubicle. It died, flashed again, died, and a printer chattered on a different table, belching a piece of paper.

He ripped it free and handed it to me. It was blank—a control to make sure no magic traces contaminated the tray.

Saiman attached the m-scan to the tray, slid it into the cube and repeated his elaborate high-tech dance. This time the printer produced an exact copy of my m-scan.

Saiman pondered it for a moment and leaned against the table, m-scan in hand. “The problem is, the m-scanner is imperfect.”